


Fallout Nuclear Reaction

by CrystalBeastSquid



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual relationship, Explicit Language, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, brief descriptions of gore and blood, eventually, idk how to tag this nonsense i don't go here, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalBeastSquid/pseuds/CrystalBeastSquid
Summary: a rewrite of Fallout 4 I've been planning as a means of practicing the technical aspects of writing a novel.
Relationships: Nick Valentine/Original Male Character, Nick Valentine/Tom Roberts
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Fallout Nuclear Reaction

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not well versed in writing fiction (this is genuinely like,, my first time actually getting anywhere with it) so feedback and critique are highly encouraged and appreciated!
> 
> also if there's something you feel needs to be tagged that I missed, please do let me know and I'll add it. I seriously have no idea what I'm doing.

A sharp wind passed over the long since dilapidated streets of downtown Boston. Some of the worst off buildings seemed almost to sway; shivering with the ghosts of a world destroyed over 200 years prior.

On the ground floor of one such building—the remnants of a long since abandoned and raided… something—sat a man who could not parse his temporary residence’s original purpose. He sat on a small box, one of the few things scavengers over the years had  _ not  _ taken, picking dirt from under his nails with the tip of an 8 inch blade bowie knife. Meanwhile a filet of mole rat cooked in a skillet on the hotplate at his feet. He didn’t care much for mole rat, no matter how well you cleaned them they always seemed to taste like dirt. But despite their taste they were rather filling, which he more than welcomed.

Another breeze passed over the street, whistling through the building's front entrance. The doors too—like nearly everything else—had been taken by scavengers. Or simply time itself. Not the best spot for camping, but the man was a light sleeper most nights, so to him it was not a problem. He would eat, clean up the scraps to avoid attracting wild dogs (or anything worse the Wasteland could throw his way, and given the chance  _ it will _ ), then curl up on his bed roll for a well deserved rest. 

Earlier while the skillet had been firing up, he’d arranged a spot to sleep behind some empty crates—to obscure his sleeping form from anyone, or  _ anything  _ that happened to peek inside. There too he had placed his hunting rifle for the time being, so it could be quickly grabbed if he were awoken. His pistol however—a .45 caliber—remained snuggly in place at his hip in its holster.

With his knife he reached down to check his meal. Finding it cooked to his liking, he removed the skillet from the heat with an old rag, and turned off the hot plate. Once the meat had cooled enough to be handled without burning anything, he cut off a piece and ate it. Dirty, like he expected. Though not the worst he’d ever had—especially given just how nasty this particular rodent had been. It was a queen after all; the mother of the pack. The type of creature that spent most—if not her entire life—rutting around deep in the Earth, clawing and digging through the dirt for her next meal. 

Still, ‘not the worst’ was still pretty bad as far as mole rats went. He gulped down another piece, holding his breath to avoid tasting it as best the trick allowed. For a moment he considered eating the mole rat jerky he’d gotten as pay for taking down the queen instead—at least that didn’t taste like dirt with a hint of mole rat mixed in. But he thought against it, as it was best not to let the ‘fresh’ stuff go to waste. Least not something he’d gotten just earlier that day. 

He’d ran into some folks on the west edge of the Commonwealth after his weeks-long trek through the mountains. They ran a side business selling mole rat jerky, making the best of an infestation. But things had gotten too hectic; too much meat than they knew what to do with, so he offered to thin their numbers a bit. The queen was the only one that really needed to go, but he ended up dealing with a good sum of the pack. Though again, the most vicious and nasty was the queen—the deeper underground they made their burrows, the more it seemed to only stoke their ferocity. He wondered if it was truly being so far down in the Earth that made them so vile, or if the Waste’s cruelest merely enjoyed the planet's cold depths.

Pondering, and thinking back on the earlier half of the day, he failed to notice the two silhouettes that appeared in the doorway. When he did finally spot them he jumped minutely, but remained still.

“Anything I can do for you two fellas?” He asked, keeping his voice calm. His right hand hovered over his pistol—they were on his left so he hoped they didn’t notice—he couldn’t make out their faces despite the light of the full moon pouring in behind them. One of the men, the lankier of the two, stepped forward. 

And swiftly bashed him in the head.

The next moment he knew, he was on the ground. His mind spun and his vision went hazy, but as they focused he managed to look up at his assailant standing over him. A gruff little man dressed up like a gangster from some old world movie, he wore a fedora, a dusty button down, and a pair of slacks that seemed a size or so too big, held up by an equally dingy pair of suspenders. They looked like they’d been cut straight from a radstag hide with little else done to ‘em. As his eyes focused that bit more, he could see this wannabe gangster was pointing a submachine gun his way.

“Get his gun,” ‘Spenders said.

_ Guess they did see it,  _ he thought.

A man in a similar get up approached him, but instead of a fedora he wore a bowler hat. The rounded top matching the roundness of its wearer’s chubby face. He quickly swiped the .45-cal. from its holster.

“Got it,” Bowler said. He held it out so his partner in crime could get a look.

“Could get some decent caps for somethin like that,” ‘Spenders said with a laugh, “You check the rest of his stuff, I’ll keep an eye on ‘im.” 

Bowler moved to the napsack leaned up against another box near the hotplate, and started looking through it.

“Y’know… it’s almost funny,” the man on the ground said.

“What the hell are you talkin about?”

“—threatening a guy named Tom with a tommy gun,” he managed a smile despite the pain in his head.

“Ergh, of course we end up with a smart mouth like you,” ‘Spenders sneered. “Find anything yet Charlie?” He said without taking his eyes off Tom.

_ Charlie? Ah… but I liked the nickname ‘Bowler’ _ Tom thought.

“He ain’t got anything,” Charlie called back.

“What do ya mean he ‘ain’t got anything!?”

“I mean there’s  _ nothing good here _ , ‘cept some jerky if you want it.” 

What Charlie said was true, there wasn’t anything of much value in Tom’s bag. He began haphazardly pulling everything out and tossing it to the floor; still searching for a treasure that wasn’t there. Then the mole rat queen’s hide—her pink flesh speckled with grayish dots and splotches—was thrown out, and underneath it he found a small stash of bottle caps tucked away in a bag at the bottom corner. 

“Here we go,” Charlie said.

“What is it?” ‘Spenders again asked over his shoulder.

“Bottle caps.”

“How much?”

With the low light, Charlie struggled to really see just how many were in the bag. Instead he opted to guess based on how the bag felt. “Uh… ‘bout 30 or 40 I think.”

“Damn, that’s hardly enough for a couple decent steaks at the Dugout,” ‘Spenders sighed, deep and tired. “Bad enough we got a smart ass, but a  _ broke _ one at that.” He said, eyeing Tom still on the ground.

“Sorry, I left the other 50 thousand at home,” Tom quipped. The pain had thankfully faded to a much more tolerable point.

“Waste of my goddamn time,” he growled, “I should kill you just for wasting our  _ goddamn time!” _ The gun was raised, pointed directly at Tom’s head—

“Just leave him,” Charlie pleaded, his face twisted with worry “if you fire that thing, the others might realize we’re gone, or…”

‘Spenders finally bothered to actually look at him. “Oh would you quit it Charlie, no one’s gonna even notice—we’ve been gone for what? Ten minutes? Those idiots are too busy playin cards or pesterin that freaky detective to bother checking if we’re at our post or not!” 

Tom tried to scoot back while they argued, he needed to put some distance between him and them… wait— _ his rifle! _ He realized they hadn’t seen his rifle. It was still behind the crates in the back with the bedroll. 

“You know what Dino told us last time,” Charlie grabbed one of ‘Spenders arms. “He’s not exactly the type to make empty threats—and it’s not _ just  _ them i’m worried about,” he said peering outside behind him.

‘Spenders paused for a moment, the fury in his eyes faded, and was replaced by a subtle anxiety. “...Alright, alright, you’ve got a point.” He turned back, Tom hadn’t gotten far from the spot he initially fell to, “You’re not worth the ammo anyway.”

“I’ll consider myself lucky then,” Tom grinned.

“Ugh, let’s get the hell outta here Charlie, before I change my mind.” He said, and as he backed up towards the doorway—his eyes locked on Tom, still filled with an indiscernible anxiousness—he hit something with the back of his shoe. He jumped a second, then looked down. 

“Well, what do we have here,” ‘Spender’s mouth twisted into a toothy grin. He picked up the knife Tom dropped when he was knocked down. “Check out this bad boy,” he said, quickly wiping the mole rat juice off on his shirt.

_ Oh come on. Not the knife _ , Tom groaned in his head, but he couldn’t let the words out—then they’d just want it more.

“Woah,” Charlie beamed.

“Here, check the sharpness—you’ve got more arm hair than me anyways.”

Charlie took the blade and rolled up a sleeve. He ran the edge of the knife over the dark, coarse hairs that coated his forearm. The blade effortlessly shaved it away, leaving a small hairless patch of skin.

“Damn how much ya think this would go for bud?” He said to Charlie.

“Oh at least a couple hundred,” he guessed.

“It’s just a combat knife,” Tom lied, “they go for 15 caps tops.” Maybe if he played it off as worthless, they’d leave it.

“Well then, why don’t you just go get yourself another one, Mr. 50 thousand bottle caps.” ‘Spenders laughed.

… _ Dammit _

“Alright, let’s zip for real Charlie. You get a head start.”

With the knife, and the few other goodies the two had pilfered, Charlie rushed out the doorway—Tom took note of the way he ran, deeper into the heart of Boston’s remains. In contrast, ‘Spenders stayed for a moment. He slowly backed away, just as he had done before stumbling over the knife. Tom pulled himself up with the backs of his forearms, watching; studying the little man as he retreated.

“Now you listen here, and you listen good,” ‘Spenders started, “you follow us,  _ you’re dead _ .” And he ran, gripping that Thompson submachine gun like his very life. 

Tom waited a moment, finally putting that distance between them. He pulled himself to his feet, still powering through the final after throws of dizziness. The throbbing pain had simmered down enough to blend in with his heartbeat. Rushing, he gathered up his things and checked his bag’s ammo pocket, which had thankfully gone undisturbed. Everything Charlie had tossed to the dusty floor was quickly shoved back into place in his pack and slung over his broad shoulders. Finally, he grabbed the hunting rifle from where it rested besides the bed roll—he would leave that for now, the hotplate too, it’d be easier to come back for them later. The gun was placed where it usually belonged, snuggly in place along his back.

“Can’t kill me if you don’t know you’re being followed,” Tom whispered to himself.

He took the back exit, ‘Spenders and Charlie would almost certainly be watching the front. Near effortlessly removing the rotting boards acting as a barricade, he skulked out into the warm late-summer night. Warm enough still that he could easily forgo his tanned-leather jacket, but kept it on nonetheless. 

Sneaking down the alleyway aside the building he pressed himself at a point of wall nearest the street and glanced out, spotting two figures in the distance. Clearly Charlie and ‘Spenders. Tom quickly and quietly moved behind the cover of one of the metal carcasses littering the road; ‘automobiles’ they’d been called, way back before they were rendered inert by nuclear fire. Most thought scrapping them was more trouble than it was worth, so here they had sat for 200 years—rusting. But they made a fine means of avoiding detection, what with ‘Spenders—still paranoid—glancing back Tom’s way what felt like every five seconds. Unluckily for the two petty thieves, and despite Tom’s size and heft, he could move like a shadow. From car to car he snuck after them, his only audience the stars above; a thousand-eyed beast of the Wastes staring down as he crept further into downtown Boston. 

He saw the two men move strangely for a moment, hugging the side of the street farthest a particularly worn down building, their eyes however were locked onto something Tom could not yet make out. He moved closer, finally seeing the odd… ‘additions’ the residents had set up. There were metal poles skewered into the earth, and atop them… heads. Decapitated human heads, some seemed fresh; still dripping with blood, while others stank of rotting flesh and stale bloodshed. Tom gagged at the sight and stench. He quickened his pace, for the moment more worried of getting spotted by the blood-thirsty raiders that had taken up the place than ‘Spenders itchy trigger finger. 

Thankfully, there only seemed to be one outside, a guard by the looks of it, snoring away—and from the sheer amount of empty beer bottles scattered at their feet and the ground below their perch, they wouldn’t be waking any time soon. The last thing Tom saw before fully passing that gore-stained hellhole was a final pole, at the top was a skull; half bleached by the summer sun. It’s empty eye sockets bore into him, the jaw—still retaining some of its rotted flesh—stuck hanging open in some distraught, perpetual scream. A shudder ran through him as he tore his eyes from the horrid image, hoping his mind wouldn’t pull it’s usual scumminess and throw  _ that _ sight back at him any time soon.

It wasn’t much farther into Boston’s crumbling heart that the two men Tom silently pursued descended into a man-made cave jutting out from the cracked and displaced concrete. A subway station. Tom crouched behind one of the streets many dilapidated streetlights, holding his breath. They were wider at the base to hold all the useless mechanics that had once allowed them to light up, but now served as just another hiding spot. He couldn’t see anyone else around the station, but finding the coast clear enough, he too descended into the old world’s gaping maw.

Inside, leading down to the old, unused subway system were a set of side by side, broken-down escalators. Basically just metal stairs at this point. There was a dim light coming from the bottom, illuminating the worn pattern of tiles that covered the floor. A good deal were cracked or broken into pieces—others gone entirely. Tom quietly made his way down gripping the railing, his hand sweaty. He could hear the faintest murmurs coming from below. Be it Charlie and ‘Spenders stowing away his things, or something scurrying around in one of the subway tunnels—the noise then echoing all the way to the entrance—he couldn’t tell. 

At the bottom of the escalator he could now make out the rest of the room. There were a few old ticket booths, the lime green cash registers—undoubtedly emptied out by this point—stuck out from behind the counters despite their rust. Everything had been thoroughly thrown into a disarray; trash cans, depleted cigarette dispensers, and miscellaneous partitions had been dragged to the side of the room to make space in the middle. Some seemed to have been purposefully left out from the pile to be used as makeshift cover. 

A voice could be heard from a door behind the counter nearest the back wall. Tom dashed like a blur to the pile of scrap metal and crouched against the wall behind a few tall garbage bins. He kept his head low, opting to listen rather than look. A moment later the door swung open, and the voices became clear.

“—No one goes back there anyways, I don’t know why you make us check every single time,” ‘Spenders huffed.

“Ain’t nothing wrong in double checking,” Charlie said, “don’t want anyone messing with our stuff y’know.”

“Whatever, let’s just go over what we got tonight already.”

They went to sit at a small card table set up around the front of the back counter. Everything was laid out on the tabletop—guns, bullets, trinkets, caps, and valuable bits of salvage; screws and copper wiring—all things the two had picked up or stolen that night. Charlie set out the bag of mole rat jerky, and they both began snacking on it as they tallied up their earnings. Tom peeked out from behind the bins and spotted his knife and pistol when ‘Spenders picked them up from his and Charlie’s little treasure trove. He remained still, weighing his options. Sure he was an incredibly agile man, but even he couldn’t swipe something straight out of another person’s hands without them noticing. Before he could decide on what to do—wait or act—someone else entered the room from up the stairs leading deeper into the station. A shifty looking man in a dark gray pinstripe suit. His hair, black like the midnight sky, was slicked back with gel, yet still looked unkempt. 

“So you two idiots finally decided to come running home ay?” The man’s voice dripped with venom.

The two whipped around in their chairs. Tom sank further back into the shade just barely able to still see them all.

“D-dino!” ‘Spenders and Charlie yelped in near unison.

“Any excuses you wanna come up with as to where you’ve been the past half hour,” Dino grimaced.

‘Spenders stood. “Please sir, there were—there were some ghouls outside earlier! We were just runnin’ em off is all,” he lied.

“Cut the shit you lanky son of a bitch!” Dino snarled, “You think I’m blind or something—you think I don’t see that table right behind you?!”

Charlie quickly rose from his seat and ran over to ‘Spenders side. “I—I won’t let him do this again Dino, sir—please, give him another chance!” he pleaded.

Dino stared for a moment, then sighed as the snarl on his face shifted into an annoyed frown. He moved between the two of them and wrapped his arms across their backs, resting a hand on their shoulders. ‘Spenders and Charlie both suppressed a wince, as if the touch itself was like a knife plunged into supple flesh. The frown shifted again, this time into a devious grin that sent another shudder down Tom’s spine and made his blood run cold. He dipped fully into the shadows, his view now limited to his things on the table.

“Alright then, how about I cut ya a deal—since I like you two ugly jerk-offs so much,” Dino grinned, his grip tightened—like at any second he’d rip them to shreds. “You give me everything you got tonight, and I don’t tell Skinny you abandoned your post, or skin you alive and pawn off your hides as some fucked up brahmin.  _ How’s that sound?” _

“Y-yessir,” they echoed again.

“Take whatever you’d like,” ‘Spenders added shakily, motioning to the table.

Dino pushed them aside—practically shoving them really—and approached the little card table, dusting himself off. First he gathered up all the bottle caps into one bag and pocketed them, then went about mulling over what else to take.

“Jeez, did you two go mugging or dumpster diving,” he complained after grabbing a well-polished silver necklace and stowing it in his front coat pocket.

“We uh… weren’t gone for very long sir…” Charlie whimpered, barely able to keep his voice louder than a whisper, “didn’t find a lot tonight…”

“Whatever, deal’s a deal,” Dino said, not bothering to pull his eyes from the table, “not like you idiots would’ve done anything worthwhile with the caps you’d get for this junk anyways.”

His eyes moved to the few weapons on the table: Tom’s things, and a beat up old pipe rifle—the latter of which was beyond use, and had merely been picked up in order to be scrapped for parts. Dino took Tom’s .45-cal. in his right hand, testing its heft before unloading the clip and checking to see if it was loaded. It was, and much to Tom’s dismay after Dino reloaded the gun he opened his suit jacket and slid it into the shoulder holster underneath. With the scant view Tom had allowed himself, he could actually see it was really a dual holster; one under each of Dino’s arms, and that the one opposite where Tom’s own handgun had been placed was also occupied by a similar firearm. 

He gritted his teeth in silence.  _ Great, now I’ve got this asshole to deal with _ , Tom thought. And if that alone weren’t already an unlucky enough turn for Tom’s losing streak of a night, Dino plucked up his bowie knife as well.

_ Fan-fucking-tastic _

Another moment later of perusing what remained of Charlie and ‘Spender’s pile, Dino turned to face them. “That’ll be all for me, fellas,” he said snarkily, idly inspecting the blade of Tom’s knife, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve still got a word or two for our little guest downstairs.” He pushed his way past the two men still cowering in front of him, and walked at a smooth pace back to the stairs he’d come up from. Charlie and ‘Spenders remained silent, clearly deflated from the encounter, watching Dino head for the stairs. However, just as he reached the busted up turnstiles that lead to the subway proper, he stopped.

“Oh, and if you pull another stunt like tonight, you’d better hope you bring back something good enough to warrant this bad boy staying outta your throats,” he gestured with the knife, and then continued, descending into the station. His shoes clicking against the worn tiling as he went.

Hearing Dino’s footsteps grow distant and quiet, Tom ducked his head back out the slightest bit to see Charlie and ‘Spenders’ backs as they stood in their same spots, making sure themselves that Dino had truly left. He watched as ‘Spenders balled his hands into fists at his side, and let out a quiet yet exasperated sigh. Charlie turned to him, placing his hand at the middle of ‘Spenders back, patting him lightly.

A short moment passed before ‘Spenders again cut through the silence, “Let’s get the hell outta here Charlie…” 

Charlie simply smiled, “Before you change your mind?”

‘Spenders laughed, low and clearly tired. “C’mon ya goofball, let’s go get our stuff,” he said and they began walking over to the back room, “We can bunker down at the Dugout tonight, I hear the rooms are pretty cheap these days,” he said before closing the door behind the two of them.

Tom waited for just a moment before peering out over the top of the bins. He pulled himself up quickly and hurried carefully to the turnstiles. The worn soles of his boots weren’t made of as hard a material as Dino’s shoes, so he didn’t have to worry about them click-click-clicking along the tile floor. He vaulted over one of the turnstiles, not wanting to risk the noise of passing through it normally, and because the other of the two was incredibly rusted and likely wouldn’t even budge. It wasn’t until he reached the landing below the first set of stairs that Tom heard ‘Spenders and Charlie come back out and head up the escalators to leave for good.

It was a shame really—that Tom couldn’t give them their due comeuppance himself—but he figured that this Dino asshole threatening to skin them alive, kill them, or what not was karma enough, and decided to leave it at that. Besides, going after them now was nothing more than a waste of time at best, since they no longer had his things. Still, he did feel a little bad for them—in spite of the fact they robbed him and all—but a flair of mild, throbbing pain at his head where ‘Spenders hit him with the butt of his gun made him push away that bit of sympathy.

Thankfully it faded as quickly as it had come, and Tom could get to scouting the area downstairs uninhibited. There was only one more set of stairs down from the landing, which then opened up into the main subway platform. As the railing sloped downward, the wall it ran along gave way to the expansive room beyond once it dipped below the high ceiling. He needed to move about half way down the stairwell before being able to peek through the starting wedge of space. Surprisingly, and despite their dimness, the lights were working and he could see that the whole place was empty—with not even a single subway car on the tracks—just what appeared to be a few scattered storage containers. Big ones at that. But what truly caught his attention, and prompted a sigh of relief, was the lack of people.

He waited, scanning the wide open station for noise or movement. When none of either came, he trotted down the remaining steps. The two tunnels to the left were blocked by rubble from when they had collapsed. Likely not long after the bombs had dropped. The right ones however were almost entirely clear of any debris. Tom weaved his way past a few benches and towards the edge of the platform before jumping down onto the tracks proper. A faint light beamed down from the opposite end of one tunnel—not bright enough to illuminate him or the furthest half of the tunnel it shone down, but enough to instill a tinge of weariness.

It was an unrealistic thought, he knew that—what with there being barely enough power for the lights—and yet still he couldn’t help but worry that this little light was a distant train car headed his way. Again, it was unrealistic, and another moment standing at the mouth of the tunnel proved that the light was not getting bigger, or brighter, or therefore closer. Regardless, Tom remained slow and cautious moving forward. It was the only way unfortunately; the second unblocked tunnel led the same way—a section of wall a ways in was even purposefully forgone in the architecture to connect the two. Just a space for equipment he supposed, now occupied by a few empty beer crates and various sized boxes used as tables and seats.

They were short tunnels anyways, so a little further in and he could finally make out what exactly this light was: some industrial grade construction lamp. A few of them were set up actually, all pointed in different directions. The tunnel had opened up into a cavern—some of the heavy machinery that had carved it out sat unused and abandoned. The scent of dirt and dust-clouded air caught Tom’s nose as he took in the surrounding rock walls. Still, no one. 

_ Couldn’t have just been those two up front guarding the place, right? _ Tom thought,  _ Figured there’d be a whole mob down here… _

Pondering to himself, Tom’s eyes caught a strange object leaned up against one of the rock walls. It was huge, maybe 15 feet tall or more, 3 to 4 feet thick, and shaped like a gear. A shape Tom recognized well; a vault door. From the looks of it an uninstalled one at that. Not an unknown occurrence in the Wastes, but a rarity nonetheless. Gravel crunched under his boots as he moved to get a closer look, and as he did something else revealed itself—previously obscured from him by one of the machines—the vault this door belonged to. The lights inside were on and clearly brighter than the bulbs back in the station. He turned his head back to the giant gear, and could see written in black at the faded yellow center was the number ‘114’.

Tom sidled up against the machine that had earlier blocked his view of the vault. It was a kind of crane, and big enough that he didn’t have to crouch to hide behind it like every other spot tonight. A relished minute of respite for his knees. Everything was quiet, and he still couldn’t see anyone.

_ Seriously, why is nobody watching this place? I get it’s late but jeez,  _ he thought while slowly making his way inside. The metal grating of the stairs leading in creaked slightly underneath him. Thankfully the front room had a couple shelves arranged in the middle—each packed with crates, boxes, and other odds and ends—so yet  _ another _ spot to squat behind and listen a moment. Though this time he actually heard something.

There were two doors in the left corner—one at each wall—the leftmost one was open, with quiet, idle chatter, and cigar smoke wafting out. Tom couldn’t sneak through the other door; vault's proved a problem in that the doors were overtly mechanical and made too much noise when opened. They’d certainly notice that no matter how careful he was. Through a space between two of the crates he could see a window on the left wall, and in turn the people inside—about three of them from what little view he had, plus another door. Getting the drop on them was out of the question, not with his slow reloading rifle, and especially given he was outnumbered. At best he could maybe take down one and wound another before they overpowered him, and that wasn’t even considering all the commotion alerting everyone else in the vault if he  _ did _ manage to get past them. No, a situation like this called for something else—he had to stick to his guts, stand his ground, and bullshit his way through.

He smoothed back the stray hairs he hadn’t caught when he’d tied his hair back earlier and took a long deep breath, steeling his nerves, and walked nonchalantly up to the open door frame. 

“‘Scuse me fellas—oh, sorry to interrupt your game, but this is vault 114, yeah?” Tom said as he leaned into the room, now able to see the men inside were seated around a box playing a game of cards. One of them next to the door at the opposite corner of the little guard room immediately glared at him and levied a submachine gun in his direction, but kept his finger off the trigger. Tom held firm as all four men gawked at him a moment—each seated in a desk chair aside from the fourth, who was sitting cross-legged half under a desk against the wall with the window. The best dressed of the four, a ghoul in a dingy black suit, and a trilby hat that looked like it’d been stomped on recently brought a bony hand up to his mouth, and took hold of the cigar between his teeth. Smoke blew out from what little remained of his nose.

He motioned to the burly man with the submachine gun next to him to lower it, “What’s your business?” He rasped, before taking another puff of the cigar. His voice sounded much worse than most ghouls.

“A guy I ran into earlier today told me y’all were a bit shorthanded, and thought I might be a good fit,” Tom said, beaming with confidence. If there was one thing that had never stirred him wrong, it was pretending you belonged and knew exactly what you were doing. “He said I’d need to speak with… I think ‘Dino’ was the name he gave me?”

The man in the corner furrowed his brow and raised the gun again, which prompted the ghoul to smack his arm, “Would you quit it! Christ, you’re easier on the radroaches.” He turned back to Tom, “Sorry about him—quick to the draw.”

“Nah I get it, from the look of things you guys must not get many other folks down here.” Tom continued.

“Nope,” the guy half under the one desk said, having gone back to staring at his cards, “—wait, you’re talking like were the first people you’ve seen in here tonight,” he squinted up at Tom.

“Oh no, I tried talking to these two guys upstairs, but they weren’t really in the best mood—I heard the tail end of someone tellin ‘em off when I walked in and, well, sounded like they didn’t want to put up with me so they just pointed the way here.”

The ghoul laughed, as well as his voice allowed anyways, deep and rumbling. “When  _ aren’t  _ those two gettin into trouble? What the hell were their names again?” He asked the three other gangsters, “Charlie and… damn who was the skinny one?”

“Roger?” The burly man next to him posited.

“No, Roger is that asshole that keeps disappearing for days on end,” the man who had yet to speak up chimed in, “and he wears those stupid sunglasses too—like does he not understand we’ve got an aesthetic going or—”

“Yeah, yeah George we all bitch about the sunglasses—save the rant for another two minutes alright,” the ghoul interrupted, his attention again turning back to Tom, “Anyways, the guy you heard ‘tellin ‘em off’ is the same Dino you’re lookin for. Ya just missed him here too actually—came through ‘bout a minute or so before you did—said he was heading to the overseer’s office. It’s pretty much a straight shot through that door,” he pointed to the wall opposite the window.

“Ah, thanks,” Tom said, and started shuffling towards it, carefully avoiding bumping up against anyone, “I’ve seen my fair share of vaults, so even then it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle—they mark these places up pretty well too.”

“Not so much this one, but yeah it’s easy to find your way around,” the ghoul hummed, “—oh right, when you get past the big room with all the scaffolding you're gonna find a room with a hole in the floor—jump down it.”

“Wuh… _ What? _ ”

“Yeah, the folks that built this place never finished, so it’s the only way downstairs that side.”

“...Ok? Why not just use the door out there then?” Tom said, pointing out the way he’d come in.

“It’s locked from the other side,” George said, “meant as some extra security measure—boss’ idea, so it’s not our place to change it. Plus the hole’s only a one floor drop.”

“Something to throw people off’s my guess,” the ghoul added, after finishing his cigar and snubbing it out in a nearby ashtray on one of the desks, “they see that door’s locked and the other leads to a hole, so they just leave not wanting to risk trapping themselves down here.”

“...Makes sense I suppose,” Tom said while passing through the open door, then turning to still face them all, “well, it was nice talking to you fellas, hope to see ya around.”

They each offered their own little farewell, be it a ‘you too’ or a simple nod. Swell guys, Tom thought, and he genuinely hoped they wouldn’t get in too much trouble for letting him in, especially considering what he’d likely have to pull with Dino. He continued into the storage room adjacent to the guard station, and down the ‘L’ shaped set of stairs going left into another decrepit, old storage room. Man, they weren’t kidding about the vault being unfinished. Identical vault tec plastic crates and other miscellaneous hand tools and equipment littered the place—mostly invaluable things, or that which was just handy to keep around—hammers and wrenches and whatnot. The door here wasn’t even labeled with a sign plate that went in the slot above it. As he opened the unlabeled door, hearing the inner mechanics huffing as it did, he could faintly make out the others upstairs getting back to their game.

“Alright, your turn.”

“Draw four.”

“Oh you  _ motherfu—“  _ followed by the sound of what Tom could only presume was someone getting smacked upside the head. Swell guys.

The door slid down behind him slowly with a strained ‘whoosh’ as Tom walked into the hallway beyond. More crates and tools were strewn about the floor. The ceiling seemed lower compared to other parts of the vault—the whole thing felt smaller than most really, and that cramped atmosphere only became more obvious with the contrast of the next space. It was the big, open room filled with metal scaffolding the men upstairs mentioned. A majority of it hadn’t been constructed—to the point where there was no real indication of what it was meant to be—rock made up most of the walls, with only a few frames set up where the actual radiation-shielding ones would have been installed. A set of pillars sat in the middle supporting the rock slab above and a few ceiling panels, with the grating built around it. Tom followed the scaffolding—trying to calm the unease of walking through a space that could reasonably cave in at any moment, given the lack of inspection or maintenance, let alone completion for two whole centuries.

Thankfully for his nerves it didn’t, and he quickly found the small office with the hole in the floor. It was as if a five by five foot square had been cut through the floor down into the room below. The hole itself was deep too, since vaults were built with thick floors and ceilings—about six feet—so theoretical radiation leaks could be properly contained, and not seep into the other levels. Carefully peering below allowed him to see a desk with a quietly buzzing terminal, some filing cabinets, and the next door. He sat down at the edge and allowed his legs to dangle over. A lip of metal big enough to stand on stuck out from all sides at the bottom of the hole, and Tom gingerly positioned himself so that he could grip the top and test to see if it could support his weight. He was more than tall enough to reach, and a few tentative bounces of his heels after his feet made contact cemented that it could in fact hold him.

He repeated the process, though more awkwardly this time given the lesser space to do so on. Now when he hung down from the metal he couldn’t touch the floor, and would have to let go and fall the last few feet. He looked down, seeing it was only two or three feet at worst and let go, his boots hitting the floor with a hard ‘thump’. Before leaving, Tom checked the desk in the corner—it was strong enough that he could move it to the middle of the room and stand on top of it to crawl back up the hole. The terminal’s screen flickered, though nearly all the displayed text was unintelligible and corrupted. He picked it up and placed it on the floor, then sliding the desk into place before opening the door and walking through. 

It led into a series of tight, winding maintenance hallways—meant for tinkering with the vaults filtration systems. A strange, muffled, echoing noise could be heard through the filters, and as Tom stumbled past toolboxes and stepladders cluttering the path, it became clearer and more apparent as a steady clicking sound. The hallway turned and the clicks stopped. This stretch of hall had another door at the end of it—albeit an open one. If this had been Tom’s first time wandering through a vault he would have wondered why there were so many damn doors, but he still had to ponder why all the rooms were so cramped. 

Claustrophobic halls again opened into another wide open room, though this one was obviously more complete—almost what one would have seen in a properly constructed and sealed vault—aside from the presence of more unused equipment of course. He stood on the balcony floor one level above the dining hall, scattered cafeteria tables sat on the black and white checkered floor. The middle of the room all the way up to the ceiling was entirely open, with guard rails installed around each floor. On the opposite side and one level above from where Tom had entered was the source of that irritating clicking. Dino stood in front of the dome shaped plexiglass window of the overseer’s office, and though Tom couldn’t see his face, his body language alone implied a wide, cocky, shit eating grin.

“How ya doin in there, Valentine?” Dino said mockingly, “Feelin hungry? Want a  _ snack?”  _ He brandished Tom’s knife, almost playfully.

Tom crouched down and swiftly made his way up the set of stairs along the wall leading to the office. If there was a time to swipe back his stuff—it was now.

“Keep talking meathead!” said a person inside the overseer’s office, having to yell to be heard through the thick walls and glass, “It’ll give Skinny Malone more time to think about how he’s gonna bump you off!” 

“Don’t give me that crap Valentine,” Dino said in a low voice, not needing to yell himself with the acoustics of the room in his favor, “you know nothin—you’ve got nothin.”

_ “Really? _ I saw him writing your name down in that black book of his. ‘Lousy, cheating card-shark’ I think were his exact words, then he struck the name across three times,” Valentine said.

Tom took cover just out of Dino’s peripheral—grateful that this ‘Valentine’ was keeping him preoccupied—and crept towards him as much from the back as the railing allowed. Slow and easy.

_ “ _ Three strikes…? _ In the black book?!”  _ Dino‘s voice filled with dread, “...But I never…oh no, I gotta smooth this over—fast!” 

He turned and Tom—standing at full height—pointed his rifle at Dino’s throat. A yelping cry escaped him; damn near a squeak. He backed up a pace, and brought up a shaky hand, as if trying to will Tom away. Frazzled, disjointed bits and pieces of words were all Dino could manage with Tom staring him down through the rifle’s iron sights. His cold blooded mobster veneer had crumbled entirely.

“Looks like Skinny decided to leave the dirty work to someone else,” Valentine said with a dry laugh, “I’m not surprised.” He sounded smug, Tom thought, but truthfully if he were in his situation right now he’d be acting just the same. 

“Hold—hold on now!” Dino finally managed, his tone frantic, “Let me talk to him—me and Skinny can work this out! I know it!” 

Tom eyed him. Like most sleazy assholes he was trying to squirm his way out of a bad wrap. Karma had finally caught up with all his shenanigans and still he was trying to slip free of any and all consequences—and sure, Tom had no intention of blowing Dino’s brains out or anything if he didn’t have to—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take advantage of the moment.

“Fine,” Tom said plainly, gruffing up his voice a touch to sound more like a merc, “Drop your weapons first.” He motioned slightly with the gun to a stack of nearby crates. Dino, having no interest in getting shot in the head tonight, walked over and laid down the bowie knife still in his other hand. He pulled open his suit jacket, and fumbled with his shoulder holster. A pistol was laid out on the crate—clearly not Tom’s own—and Dino started turning to leave. 

“All of ‘em,” Tom growled and knitted his brow.

“How the hell do you—“ Tom jabbed the gun’s barrel forward, prompting Dino to gulp and reopen his jacket. “Okay, okay,  _ fuck.”  _ He placed down the .45 caliber handgun.

“Now get outta my sight.”

Dino stumbled past him. His eyes still blow wide, and glued on Tom before whipping his head around to run off down the stairs like some scared little kid. One wrong step away from tripping over himself. A door next to the one going into the maintenance halls acted as Dino’s escape route. The quick succession of clicking that followed seemed to infer another set of stairs. Tom stared off in that general direction, listening for the sound of Dino’s wild footsteps to disappear with him somewhere else in the vault. He approached his weapons on the crate, having shifted the rifle into a one-handed grip, and went about putting them back into their respective holsters—leaving Dino’s pistol where it lay—beaming all the while. It was nice to have his knife back in his hands, the blade hadn’t been too scuffed up since it was stolen either. He swung the rifle's strap over a shoulder to free up the other hand, and ran a calloused thumb down the bevel to the edge.

“Hey, you.”

Tom slid the knife gently into its leather sheath as he looked back at the dome shaped window. Now able to really look inside, it was near pitch black aside from a weak light fixture by the back wall, but he could see two other strange lights suspended in the darkness. He stepped closer—and then the lights blinked. …No, they weren’t lights, well… they were more than  _ just _ lights. They were  _ eyes _ . Tom saw the silhouette of a person standing in the office, and where their eyes should have been were instead those faint rings of shining yellow.

“I don’t know who you are, but would you mind getting this door open while you’re here?” Valentine asked, the question seeming to lack any malintent. Though sounding genuinely antsy—like he didn’t want to wait around for Tom to unlock the room, but didn’t want to be too forward or desperate and drive him off in the process. “There should be a terminal out there on the wall,” he continued.

Indeed, a terminal was mounted on the wall—right next to the office’s door in fact—but Tom hesitated for just a moment. He didn’t know who this person was. Yeah, he didn’t seem too bad—polite even—and considering that these mobsters were okay with letting an immature bully that cracked if you dished back out what he was serving watch him, then he probably wasn’t a serial killer or anything. Probably just walked in on his own like Tom himself, got caught, and thrown in here. And even if he wasn’t just some guy (...that happened to having glowing eyeballs) it’s not like Tom couldn’t take him, since he had his .45 and knife back after all. 

He walked up to the terminal. Green text flickered across the dusty black screen. ‘ _ Welcome to ROBCO Industries™ termlink. Greetings, Vault Citizen. Please take a number,’  _ it read at the top. Two options sat below it: ‘take number’ and ‘override door control’. The latter option, though overtly convenient as it was, didn't draw much suspicion in Tom’s eyes—the room  _ was _ being used as a makeshift jail cell. Tom’s fingers found the arrow keys and pressed down once, selecting the override command and pressing enter. The computer whirred as the screen displayed two new lines of text.  _ ‘Accessing door…’ ‘Manual override initiated. Opening door…’ _ and then, unsurprisingly, the office door slid up a second later.

Light poured inside from the now open doorway, yet most of the room still remained cast in shadow. Having stepped away from the terminal, Tom stood just in front of the overseer’s office. He didn’t risk going inside proper—in case the door closed and relocked itself behind him. Valentine’s eyes pierced through the darkness with a new intensity, no longer blurred by the scratched up office window. He stepped forward towards the light—towards Tom. And as he did, Tom realized that his eyes were not the only strange thing about him. At first he thought it nothing more than a trick of the light; something to do with the way the shadows were cast maybe, but no—Valentine’s skin really was a dull gray. That alone didn’t cause Tom much alarm—he’d met a few ghouls in his time whose skin had taken on a similar hue with age—but Valentine was decidedly  _ not _ a ghoul. For one, his nose was still intact.

“Thanks, now I’d love to stay and chat awhile, but it’s best we save the niceties for later,” Valentine spoke in a kind tone with a kinder smile on his face, “We’ve got maybe three minutes tops before muscle for brains realizes we played him for a fool.”

This close now Tom could make out the finer details of his face, partially hidden by his wide brimmed fedora, but found himself staring at the sides, along his jaw, and neck. There were holes—but he wasn’t bleeding—the skin simply stopped, leaving frayed and irregular edges that gave way to within. He could see metal, and bunches of wiring within his neck and face.

“What makes you think I’m  _ not  _ a hired gun,” Tom said, trying to uphold the merc persona he’d quickly whipped up. He saw no need in asking the obvious—thought it’d be rude at best—and it wasn’t his business anyways.

“To be truthful, it was only two strikes,” he laughed, “at worst Skinny and his boys’ll run him out or maybe take a couple fingers—but knowing Dino’s track record, three wasn’t much of a stretch,” he began striding past Tom, “Now, what’s say we get outta here?”

Tom’s hand went up to Valentine’s chest, pinning the loose tie around his neck against his button up, and stopping him in his tracks. “Wait just a minute,” he said, “are you even armed?”

The brief panicked yet stern look that had begun in Valentine’s features quickly faded as Tom pulled his hand away. “Oh… of course,” he said and reached into the tan trench coat he wore, “I’ve got it right—” he paused. “Oh, right… they grabbed my pipe pistol when they threw me in here,” he said plainly, looking back into the office.

“A  _ pipe pistol?  _ Tom scoffed in disbelief, “No wonder you got caught.”

“Oh c’mon they’re not that bad—easy to maintain too.”

“And easier to backfire. Hold on,” he picked up Dino’s handgun from where it’d been left and held it out towards Valentine, “Here, no point leaving it for Dino am I right?”

“Sure, sure,” he took it with his right hand, which lacked any of his grayed plastic skin, revealing a skeletal metal frame. Though he held the gun just fine, and unloaded the clip to check how much ammo it held. “Oh you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said a moment later.

“What is it?” 

“There’s only 2 bullets in here,” he said staring down into the clip, “You’d think with how he prattled on threatening anyone he could get away with he’d at least keep his clip full.”

“Seriously? What kinda rounds was he rockin?” Tom asked, reaching back into his bag’s ammo pocket.

“10 millimeter.” 

“Shit, I don’t carry that kind…” he dug around for two preloaded clips of .45 rounds instead, pulling them out, and taking the gun they were meant for back out from his hip holster. “You can borrow mine for now then,” he said holding them out.

“...Didn’t you make your way through here just to get that back?” Valentine squinted.

“Well… yeah, but to put it bluntly, you don’t look like a shithead that’ll run off with it,” Tom shrugged, “Besides, it was the knife I was more worried about.”

Valentine took the gun and thanked him again, stowing Dino’s pistol in his own shoulder holster and the two clips in his coat pocket. Tom pulled back forth the rifle slung over his shoulder and had Valentine walk in front, the tail of his trench coat billowing behind him. Tom may have been quick to trust strangers, but he wasn’t dumb enough to give someone a gun and then immediately turn his back to ‘em. They followed their way back to the two doors down a floor; the one Tom had snuck in through and the other which Dino ran out from. Valentine started into the latter, but Tom grabbed his upper arm and pulled him back slightly. He let go once Valentine turned back to him.

“Let’s leave the way I came in instead,” Tom suggested, “the place is practically empty that way.”

Valentine just stared at him a few seconds, then into the maintenance halls and back again. “But… it’s a dead end with a hole in the ceiling.”

“We can climb up it, there’s a desk in there that I already moved into place—hell I can give you an extra boost too if you need it,” Tom said. Valentine was a little over half a foot shorter than him, not counting the hat. “Plus there’s only four guys I saw upstairs and well, I was able to trick ‘em into letting me through. I’m sure I can get them to scram long enough for the both of us to slip past,” he continued.

“Fair enough,” Valentine hummed after a quick moment of mulling over the idea, and the two of them shuffled into the cramped hallway.

It was a short walk back to the office with said hole. They’d been brisk—with Valentine’s loose three minute time limit still in mind—but careful enough as to not run headlong into anyone else who may have come down this way. The door slid open and the room still remained as Tom had left it. He crawled up onto the desk and held out a hand to help Valentine do the same. His left hand—completely unlike the right; still retaining the skin—fit snugly into Tom’s own. They stood tall on the table top, and it was thankfully strong enough to handle their combined weight. Since Valentine needed help to do so, he was the first up. Tom overlaid his hands and gave Valentine a leg up to reach the hole’s metal lip. He then easily pulled himself up to the floor above and Tom followed suit, Valentine then taking his turn to offer a hand in pulling him up.

They continued backwards through the same series of rooms Tom had traversed earlier. He still had to suppress his nerves, and the queasiness that flared up while following the scaffolding in the big room that was more rock than vault, but found it that slight bit easier with another person around. Soon they arrived at the base of the ‘L’ shaped stairs going up to the vault’s entrance floor, and Tom breathed a soft sigh of relief.

“You alright?” Valentine asked with genuine concern.

“Yeah, I just hate deep caves and run down vaults—heard too many horror stories about cave-ins is all,” he managed and took a long breath to compose himself, “Those 4 guys I mentioned are in the room next to the one up these stairs.”

“Think anymore about how you wanna deal with them?”

“Could probably get two of ‘em to head downstairs saying I need someone to vouch for me—I said I was looking to join to get inside—lock the door at the top of these stairs, and then we get the jump on the last two?” It wasn’t the best plan, he knew that, but he hadn’t been expecting to sneak someone else out with him—especially not a prisoner—so it’s not like he had a master escape plan prepared in advance. “There’s some crates we can hide behind to scout things out too.”

“Let’s do that first then,” Valentine proposed, “I’d like to get a better idea what exactly we’re dealing with myself if you don’t mind.”

Tom had no problem with that, particularly if it meant a chance at not having to attack anyone. They snuck their way up the stairs, and the door at the top was still wide open. Crouched down, they easily slid behind a line of large supply crates and moved to try and see inside the guard station. It was quiet, almost eerily so. Were the guards that invested in their game? They moved further down the line enough to see more properly inside, and Tom nearly gasped.

“It’s…empty?” he whispered, “huh, guess that makes it easier on our end,” he said to Valentine knelt beside him. …But he just kept staring into the room with a deep focus in his eyes.

_ “Shit,” _ he finally said, almost too hushed for even Tom to hear, “No, look—out the window.”

It took Tom a moment to see just what exactly Valentine was talking about—what with the packed shelves blocking much of the view beyond the windows—but cursed himself when he did. A group of mobsters in dark suits stood in a loose row blocking the vault’s entrance, each carried a submachine gun aside from one: a single woman wearing a dark blue sequin dress. She had in her hand and propped against her shoulder a wooden baseball bat, her other arm was locked around that of the man next to her. He was big and tall, and exuded a commanding air over the room.

“...I take it that’s Skinny Malone,” Tom groaned.

“Mmhm”

“Who’s that woman next to him?”

Valentine sighed, “The whole reason I’m in this mess,” he grumbled. “Her name’s Darla, she went missing a few weeks back and her family hired me to find her. Thought she’d been kidnapped actually, but it turns out her and Malone have just been going steady. They’re perfect for each other really—and I mean that in the worst way possible.”

“Yikes,” Tom said glancing back out the window, “well forget them, there’s gotta be some other way out.”

“It’s a  _ vault—” _

“An  _ unfinished _ vault,” he frowned, “have mole rats or anything ever burrowed in through the rock walls? We could use their tunnels to get out.”

“Even if there were, between a firing squad or squirming through a foot and a half wide burrow that leads to who knows where—I’d prefer the firing squad,” he deadpanned.

“...On second thought… yeah me too,” Tom said sheepishly. The thought of being that tightly pressed on all sides by dirt in the cold darkness made him regret even suggesting it.

“Listen I can see you’re worried, but hear me out, I’ve had to put up with Malone for a long time,” Valentine placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder, “this whole mobster schtick is mostly for the theatrics—one too many old mafia movies as a kid’s my guess—his boys aren’t gonna fire on us the second we walk out there.”

“You sure?” 

“Absolutely, ‘Ol Skin would hate to lose a chance to monologue at us,” Valentine laughed and rose to his feet, “just… keep your gun out y’know.”

Tom stood as well and they hurried into the guard room, each with their weapon ready. The door leading out to Skinny and the others was closed, and as Valentine worked the door open, Tom looked over the room. There wasn’t anything really out of place—just some cards strewn about on the crate set at the middle of the floor—but he didn’t see any of the guys from earlier outside either. The door opened, somewhat noisier than the others, or maybe the deafening silence that followed only made it seem louder by comparison. Valentine’s footsteps broke that silence, and he planted himself firm with Tom’s pistol held out at chest level, his eyes surveying the other men. Tom positioned himself next to Valentine, rifle similarly pointed out at the many mobsters obstructing their exit.

The men in turn each trained their submachine guns on the two, aside from Malone, who stood mouth agape with his gun still safely held downwards. Darla released their arms and moved the length of the bat against her shoulder to her now free hand. She smacked it lightly into her palm a few times. The others remained frozen, waiting for Malone’s cue. He took a step forward and scowled at them both. In doing so Tom and Valentine could now see that standing behind the line of men was Dino, though he distinctly lacked any sort of weapon.

“What the hell are you doin!?” Malone yelled, “You come into my house, make a mockery of my guys, and expect to just waltz on outta here!”

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your runaway dame, Skinny,” Valentine spoke calmly, “you ought to tell her to write home more often.”

“Aw, poor little Valentine—ashamed you got beat up by a girl?!” Darla said, hitting the bat into her hand a few more times.

“Course not, though I wouldn’t exactly count sweeping my legs out with a bat from behind a corner ‘beating me up’ either,” he grinned.

“Should’ve left it alone Nicky, this ain’t the old neighborhood,” Malone butted in, “In this vault, I’m king of the castle, ya hear me! And I ain’t lettin’ some private dick ruin everything now that I’ve finally got something good going.”

“I told you we should’ve just _ killed him! _ ” Darla screamed at Malone, “but then you had to go and get all sentimental—all that stupid crap about the ‘old times,” she sneered.

“Darla I’m handling this!” He yelled back, “Skinny Malone’s always got things under control!”

_ Yikes, _ Tom thought,  _ ‘perfect for each other’ indeed… _

“Oh yeah, then what’s  _ this _ guy doing here, huh?” Darla continued to argue, glaring daggers into Tom, “is he Valentine’s little backup plan to rub us all out? Or should I say his  _ big _ backup plan,” she laughed.

_ Cute, real fuckin cute, asshole, _ Tom thought, “Hey, I only happened to get in cause  _ pinstripes _ back there drove off the two guys guarding the entrance,” he shouted.

Malone’s shoulders dropped in surprise, and his eyes suddenly went wide and angry. He spun around to Dino, “you did  _ WHAT?!”  _ he roared, nearly shaking the tunnels outside. Dino only slank back into himself as Malone bore down over him.

“C'mon Skinny,” he stammered out, “you’re really gonna believe this bozo over me? I’m your right hand guy, I’d—I’d never do something like that!” 

But Malone’s face remained twisted with fury. He looked to one of the other mobsters at his side and motioned them over. “Go check upstairs, quick,” he said, and with an affirmative grunt they ran fast out of the vault and into the subway. He watched until they reached the far end of the tunnel. “I’ll deal with you in a minute,” he said to Dino, staring him down a moment before turning back to Tom and Valentine. “Now, where were we?”

“You were just about to let us walk,” Valentine quipped, “you still owe me for two weeks in the hole.”

“Think you’re funny, eh wise guy? Or are you interested in losing the rest of that scrap pile you call a throat?” Malone furrowed his brow.

“C’mon already Skinny, let’s just kill ‘em!” Darla said with a sick and evil smile, gripping her bat tightly, “I wanna see how he sparks and fizzles when we—”

“Hey boss!” A voice interrupted from outside the vault. Malone looked out and saw the man he’d told to check the entrance running back down the tunnel, “I didn’t see anyone upstairs! Looks like they ran off—took all their stuff too!” he yelled from the mouth of the cave, voice echoing. 

The fury reignited in Malone’s face and he glared at Dino. With immense strength he grabbed the smaller man by the front of his collar and lifted up, nearly taking him clear off the ground. Dino gasped and pawed at Malone’s wrist in a futile attempt to be put down. His grip only tightened. All Dino could do was plead with bulging eyes as Malone gritted his teeth, and his pale face went red with rage. 

“It’s not what it looks like!” Dino finally managed, “I—”

“Shut your fuckin mouth you scheming, no good, lying son of a bitch!” Malone yelled and threw Dino to the ground hard. He groaned in pain as he hit the floor and then tried to pull himself up, only to see Skinny pointing his submachine gun right at him.

“Skin, please, I didn’t—”

“Strike three, asshole,” he said and held down the trigger. 

Darla screamed as he started firing. A spray of bullets ripped through Dino, the shots echoing throughout the vault and subway system. Malone didn’t stop until he was left a crumpled mass on the vault floor, blood quickly pooling below him and soaking his now bullet hole riddled suit. Darla backed away in utter horror from the fresh corpse and Malone’s animosity, her gaze shifting to him. He looked down at Dino’s body and huffed, the high of his anger finally starting to abide. Tom and Valentine kept their weapons tightly drawn as Skinny turned back to them, they didn’t dare falter and risk a similar fate.

He mumbled something and eyed Valentine, before sighing and speaking, “Y'know what?” he started, “I don’t care anymore—I don’t care about the old days, or why you two asses barged in. Just get out!” he yelled, “You get to the count of ten. I still see your faces after that, and Dino’s won’t be the only body laid out tonight!” And he began slowly counting.

He got to two before Valentine grabbed Tom’s arm, “We better get outta here, fast,” he said. Tom didn’t need to be told twice. They quickly ran past everyone, carefully skirting around Dino’s bloodstained corpse, and out into the cave. “This way, there’s a service ladder that should take us right to the surface,” Valentine said, pointing to a door next to the subway tunnel.

Tom heard Skinny get to six as they got inside and he closed the door behind them. They both took a moment to breath before heading further in past the consoles and up a flight of stairs. Like Valentine had said, waiting for them was a ladder. Tom watched the door, making sure they weren’t followed as Valentine climbed up and removed the manhole cover blocking the way out, easily lifting it and sliding it to the side. He crawled out and called for Tom to do the same, though he looked back at the door one last time before scurrying up the ladder and out into the wide alley the hole had led to. Once he was out he quickly pulled the heavy manhole cover back into place, ultimately cutting off anyone that intended to chase after them.

He picked himself up and turned to Valentine, who stood with his back leaned against a streetlight. It must’ve been connected to the same power grid as the subway station, because it shone dimly in the warm night. The brim of Valentine’s hat casted a stark shadow over his eyes. That is until he pulled out a cigarette and lit a match, his face then illuminated in a soft glow of orange and yellow. It gave his skin the appearance of a livelier tone, and emphasized all the tiny scars and marks of his face. Tom’s eyes were drawn to Valentine's own, half lidded and staring down into the match. Those rings of golden yellow; his real irises, they looked as though they were simply the fire reflected in dark eyes. Valentine inhaled slowly, before plumes of smoke gently billowed out from the sides of his face. As Tom’s gaze moved to a thin vertical scar that ran over Valentine’s lips, he couldn’t help but realize that his heart was still beating wildly in his chest… he could have sworn it had already calmed down...

“Ah my knight in shining armor,” Valentine said so warmly, holding his cigarette between two metal fingers.

“Who me? I… I hardly did anything down there,” Tom said, glad that the low light hid his slight blush.

“Maybe not at the tail end,” he admitted, “but you still let me out, that’s what matters.”

Tom shrugged, “I guess so.”

“Anyways, name’s Nick Valentine, and if the clothes or what you heard downstairs weren’t already a dead giveaway, I’m a private eye,” he said while motioning to his outfit. Primarily the dingy trench coat he wore, littered with patches and haphazard threadwork. “I run a detective agency over in Diamond City.”

“Oh, Tom Roberts, uh… vagrant? I don’t really know what the hell I’m up to these days,” he said scratching the back of his head absentmindedly.

“Really? Well Tom, if you need a place to stay I’m happy to put you up at the agency a few nights—least I could do as thanks for rescuing me and all.”

“What? No—no, I wouldn’t want to burden you like that.”

“It’s no trouble, honest,” he took another quick drag of his cigarette, “but if you don’t want to stay at my place, I could pay for a room at the town inn instead. The Dugout’s not the coziest spot in the world, but it is a bed to sleep in—or I could treat you to dinner if you’d prefer.”

Tom didn’t have to think on it long. There were two guys at the Dugout he was  _ not _ interested in running into again tonight. For a moment he thought to just say goodbye and be on his way, but the quiet rumbling of his stomach made him think against it.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind something to eat,” Tom said, “I didn’t exactly get to have dinner before getting roped into all this.”

“Great, I can show ya this one stand we got in town, best noodles in the whole Commonwealth!” Nick gestured with his hands, “though now that I think about it, it’s probably the  _ only _ noodle stand in the Commonwealth—but that doesn’t make ‘em any less delicious!”

“Sounds good—but could we stop somewhere beforehand? I left a few things at the spot I set up camp earlier. We should still be pretty close.” He looked up at the sky and surrounding buildings, getting a sense of location.

“Sure thing,” Nick said, snubbing out his cigarette on one of the buildings, “lead the way.”

And so he did, the two of them walking out into Boston’s ruined streets, guided by pale moonlight alone. Freed from the cold depths of the old world, and surrounded by the warm August night. 


End file.
